Rescuing the Player

Chapter 2

Deanna

Going to the hospital, a place I hate more than anything, is not how I expected to end my Saturday night. The moment I spotted Hayes at the bar, I imagined another magical night with him. Instead, my hands are clammy and I'm trying my hardest to keep my cool.

Hayes cannot sit still, which I understand better than most. He paces back and forth in the hallway outside the emergency room, while I stand to the side in the mostly empty waiting room, watching him, trying to suppress the overwhelming anxiety that washes over me like a tidal wave.

I hate it here. Everything about hospitals sets me on edge—the dull gray walls, the harsh fluorescent lights, the sterile linoleum floors, the incessant sounds, and that nauseating antiseptic smell. I've spent far too much time in places like this, and none of those experiences were pleasant. Being here now dredges up memories I'd rather forget—pain, blood, and that haunting smell that lingers in my nightmares.

My heart races inside my chest, threatening to burst through the confines of my ribcage, as memories clamor to break through the walls I've erected around them. I struggle to draw in a slow, shaky breath, willing the memories to retreat. I don't want to be here, but I can't leave Hayes alone. Not now.

I clench my trembling hands at my sides, digging my fingernails into my palm, relishing in the pain it brings. It helps distract me from the swirling chaos inside my head. My breathing becomes fast and shallow, my chest constricting with each inhale. I make a conscious effort to slow it down, to focus on things within my control. Years of therapy have taught me with coping mechanisms for moments like these, but sometimes, they're harder to control than others. And hospitals are definitely a trigger.

"Five things you can see," I remind myself.

Chair, door, TV, floor and Hayes. Hayes. Always Hayes. He's walking away, his back turned to me, head bent forward, shoulders slumped.

"Four things you can touch."

My bag, the chair, the wall, and the door.

"Three things you can hear."

Voices, TV, machines.

The sound of the machines beeping and pumping is not really helping my anxiety, but I force myself to push that out of my mind and continue.

"Two things you can smell."

Antiseptic. Antiseptic, antiseptic...

No...

My breathing quickens, my chest tightening. That smell. That terrible smell. I can't get away from it. My vision goes blurry despite my attempt to control my anxiety.

Suddenly, Hayes is in front of me. He's saying something, but his words are lost in the haze of my distress. His hands grip my arm like he's trying to steady me. I don't think I'm swaying, but maybe I am. I try to focus on his mouth, on the words that are coming out. He has such a beautiful mouth. Perfect straight teeth and soft, plump lips.

I close my eyes and try to slow my breathing.

"Deanna," Hayes shakes my arm, but it's gentle, not harsh in the way he used to do it. "Are you okay?"

I force my eyes up to his. They are a deep shade of blue, like a darker jeans color but with lighter hues around the pupil, and they're filled with worry. His brows are furrowed as he studies me intently. I don't want him to worry about me. I'm supposed to be here for him, to be his support, because he has bigger things to worry about—Hanna and his baby.

"Breathe, Deanna," Hayes encourages with another shake. "Breathe with me."

He takes my hand in his, placing it flat against his chest, allowing me to feel the way his chest rises and relaxes with each breath. The warmth of his body seeps through his thin shirt, and I can feel the contours of his muscles beneath my palm. It's a chest covered by tattoos I've trace with my fingers.